


Intret amicitiae nomine tectus amor

by chantefable



Category: Frontier Wolf - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Ancient Rome, Attempt at Humor, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Slice of Life, Unreliable Narrator, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:22:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25534300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/pseuds/chantefable
Summary: Hilarion is overworked, overthinking, and obliviously missing a good chunk of his own life.Fortuitously, it shall not linger in obscurity for very long.
Relationships: Alexios Flavius Aquila/Hilarion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	Intret amicitiae nomine tectus amor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ryme_intrinseca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryme_intrinseca/gifts).



Some call ships, infantry or horsemen  
The greatest beauty earth can offer;  
I say it is whatever a person  
Most lusts after.

Sappho

***

The sun was sinking slowly, the mellow darkness seeping into the land like unctuous honey. They were now well past midsummer, and nights were no longer the sharp bursts of blackness that flew by quicker than sleep was wont to silence one’s thoughts. The soft metamorphosis of twilight was much more pronounced, and night-time stretched on for longer, sweet and tangible with its fragrant blackness, powdery with the promise of ripening grain, dense and heavy on the human limbs fatigued by the day’s chores.

The nightingales called an abrupt halt to their song, for which Hilarion was grateful as he made his way to his room, casually rubbing at his temples in the hope of staving off a headache. The sun had been most merciless during the day, and his goodwill had all but evaporated under the hot celestial glare. So far, the rays were proving somehow more biting in Belgica than in Britannia: even Alexios, constantly absorbed in plans and his own private considerations, off-handedly remarked that the splattering of freckles across Hilarion’s face was growing darker. 

All things considered, Hilarion was leaning towards the opinion that this was not a compliment to his looks, but not a disparagement, either. Far worse, it was indifference and mere observation, and that was surely enough to put a better man than Hilarion in a sulk. He had plenty of practice of turning the minds of people who found him displeasing or alien – such a strong emotion only needed the right kind of push to be swayed in the desirable direction, in his experience – but whenever someone deemed him bland and uninteresting, Hilarion found himself as confused as a new-born foal. Or, he thought bitterly, remembering today’s teaching toils, as an Attacotti warrior discovering the necessary and mandatory skill of making good old Roman paved roads. One would thing they never showed them how to handle a stone during basic training at Corstopitum.

Assuredly, the sight of Hilarion wringing his hands and whipping the obstinate bunch that were now the First Attacotti scouts would have melted any sensible heart! And yet the fact that he was flinging himself at the challenge, with no thought spared for the excruciating exhaustion that settled in at the end of the day that was full of wrangling ruffians with no habit for standardised practice; the fact that he was becoming as adept at smoothing feathers ruffled by old tribal grudges as befit any high-ranking council member at Traprain Law, no less; the fact that Hilarion was slowly but surely reaching the point where his patience would wear as thin as a pair of old socks: all of it went quite unnoticed by the person for whose sake he happened to have placed himself in these circumstances.

It wasn’t that his diligence and determination was unappreciated, exactly, but _someone_ appeared resolutely ignorant of the fact that, while Hilarion was excellent at his duties because he was, well, as excellent as men came in such a position, he had taken it because he was choosing to follow a particular Praepositus of the Numerus, and not out of abstract career ambition. Hilarion would have thought this was something as obvious as one of Hannibal’s war elephants, and yet said Praepositus of the Numerus managed to ignore it so successfully as to not address it in any way, shape or form ever since they had crossed Fretum Gallicum. 

Once in the privacy of his room, Hilarion allowed himself to slump against the door frame. He only wanted some transparency in a relationship that was growing increasingly opaque. Was that too much to ask? For better or for worse, it was the only solid relationship either of them had here, after all. Fates, Jupiter, Mithras and whatever Lucius believed in must have all been in agreement that the two of them were meant for companionship, so why, oh why, was it as cold and unsatisfying as old barley porridge of late?

Truly, bemoaned Hilarion as he was calling it quits for the night and hoping for the buzzing of busy insects to drown out the loud thoughts inside his sun-tormented head, some things in life were terribly unfair. No matter how trifling the whatsit you desire happens to be, the gods will find a way to cheat you out of it. They’re a jealous sort, those gods, no matter their ilk.

Drawing his wool blanket up to his chin, Hilarion then proceeded to stare at the luxurious and wasteful flame of the lamp he had left burning for no particular reason, unless one counted being indulgent and allowing oneself a little bit more light to wallow in self-pity over a throat too hoarse from shouting, wrist too sore from motioning with the staff for hours on end, and thighs positively aflame with all the running he was doing to keep the place from collapsing under the weight of collective incompetence condensed on the premises.

The nights in Belgica, milder than what he had grown used to with the Frontier Wolves, were proving positively conducing to pining. If days were productively spent being diligent about one’s duties, and thus, hopefully, in a roundabout way, gaining further favour with the object of said pining, nights were just made for the mellow decadence of twisting from one side to the other, prickly sheets dragging on the sun-burnt skin of one’s calves and forearms, and being unabashedly morose until Morpheus granted some semblance of blissed relief.

Thus, all of Hilarion’s nights proceeded in much the same fashion. 

There was scarcely a breath between the mundane thoughts of daily tasks to be completed at the castellum tomorrow and the lush imaginations of a pleasure-loving heart.

Much loneliness was experienced as he was watching the door rimmed with shadow and grumbling internally that no one would ever pay him a visit.

It was not like his erstwhile days, when Lucius was always up for a game of dice or some friendly conversation, or would recite something about the bees and the fields from his adored Georgics. It was not like the time when he was in the beginning of his career, sharing space with other young and inexperienced folk, and then with more mature fellows, who all would have a word for him, in jest, in scorn or in genuine companionship. Somehow, having gained such an advanced position, Hilarion felt very much alone, and lacked intimacy.

It was not as if he lacked friends entirely, but the fact that, with Lucius’ death, Hilarion’s heart had latched on so completely on the man who just happened to be his commander, brought considerable complications into his life. They were friendly, but Hilarion perceived a marked distance that was only natural, and was due to instill further respect and subordination in the Attacotti. That did not mean that the selfish and capricious part inside of him was happy about it, or that the rest of Hilarion was able to derive any pleasure from the situation, either. In fact, it was vexing in the extreme.

Here, in the mild and wild open spaces of Belgica, with its fields and mists so unlike home and yet so reminiscent of it, Hilarion found that he had forged a strong friendship with his commander Alexios Flavius Aquila, and yet this friendship was not the source of strength it would have been bound to be. Instead, it was a deceptive and treacherous thing, and Hilarion wouldn’t have believed such a thing were possible. And yet, just as Ovid had warned foolish folk in his Ars Amatoria, love had sneaked in disguised as friendship. What Hilarion was to do about it, he had not the faintest idea.

Some nights, like tonight, he imagined Alexios paying him a visit, and, with the world plunged in darkness, Hilarion would still see his face as clearly as if the moon itself had floated into the room. He was sure of it. And, why, nights like this, when he was spoiling himself silly and burning away perfectly good oil, he would be able to see Alexios’ stern pensive face limned by buttery light, worries smoothed away. Hilarion would gladly smooth them away with his fingers, too, just to make sure.

But, alas, such things never happened – if only a little, if only in Hilarion’s head, in his dreams that filled him with so much urge that he woke up with the sheets all tangled and damp with sweat. 

It wasn’t that when he stared at the black rim of the large shadow by the door, it moved, and with it the figure that was casting the shadow as well, and the commander of the fort himself stood by his bed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, before sitting down unceremoniously and troubling Hilarion’s sore thigh.

The left one.

Surely, that was bad luck.

Delirium brought on by hard work and thirsting after impossible things.

Right?

Very carefully, Hilarion peered through the sticky darkness that refused to cooperate, but instead of adequately assessing what was before him, he only became aware of the thrum of blood rushing in his temples, the pounding of his heart and the warm sweat slicking his shoulder blades and the small of his back. The pounding was particularly loud, as incessant as a drum, and Hilarion was forced to admit that its rhythm was far too complicated to be produced by a single heart. The heat in the room was also changed, becoming even more adamant and alive, and the dip of his bed under considerable weight, not unlike that of another body, was the final clue that made him admit that he was not alone. Not alone at all.

And surely there was no one else bold enough to cross the threshold – no one else entitled to do so – than the Praepositus?

Gently, Hilarion reached out, and soon his calloused fingers found the dense weave of a cloak, and felt the movement of a strong hand under it before another’s fingers twined with his. The shape of the dolphin signet ring was unmistakeable, and Hilarion licked his lips, at a loss for words, for surely this was all a dream like any other. He often dreamed they talked late at night, didn’t he? On days when he was just as fatigued and barely cognizant, he would find himself mid-talk with an Alexios he must have imagined, and those conversations were so different from the cool and business-like ones they had during the day, and yet so wonderful and life-like, Hilarion felt himself quite bare… as bare as his body was in concession to the night’s heat. 

“Are you awake?” Alexios’ voice was a whisper, rough as if he had sleepwalked in here mid-dream.

Was he awake? Hilarion was not sure he could say so, and prudently did not tell.

“Honestly, for all you say you can keep it up, it seems that you are barely alive, my friend,” Alexios kept saying in a voice far more playful than anything Hilarion could remember. “I say you shall except a day off duty, and I will take over the scouts myself for a little while. And I will not accept the same protests as last night.”

Last night Hilarion had slept particularly soundly, or so he thought, but he did not give voice to any objection as Alexios stretched out on the bed beside him and threw a wiry arm across Hilarion’s chest in a most auspicious manner.

“I can tell that you are awake, you know.” Alexios’ voice was barely above a murmur, lost somewhere in Hilarion’s hair. “But you should sleep. We can talk before the first hour, grasp a few moments before the sun rises.” 

The brush of cool dry lips against his forehead was definitely not a dream, and suddenly Hilarion felt more lucid than he had in weeks, as if finally roused from a strange trance. Light-headed, he twisted, drawing the blanket over Alexios’ form as well, and, making sure that they were rightfully entwined, placed his head on Alexios’ shoulder and whispered,

“I’m awake.”


End file.
